


Trial of Leadership

by SwissArmyKnife



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: "There is one I could call king", Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dwalin has doubts, Earning Respect, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Men of the North, Thorin and Kíli have big personalities and overshadow Fíli sometimes, but still waters run deep, in-fighting, it's a disaster side quest basically, the company figures that out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissArmyKnife/pseuds/SwissArmyKnife
Summary: During their fight with the spiders, the company is divided. Fíli guides his fractured, querulous group toward Lake-town, hoping to rejoin Thorin. However, the shadow of the enemy stretches over their path, plaguing every step with danger and doubt.
Relationships: Fíli & Bofur & Bifur, Fíli & Dwalin, Fíli & Nori & Ori
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21





	1. Attercop, Attercop

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by This Prompt: The company ends up split into two groups. Thorin is obviously calm and logical. The other half, however, is thrown off by not having their king with them. They argue over which path to take and how to find their friends. Fíli, at first hesitant, gets annoyed and takes charge. Turns out, he's a natural. He works out where his uncle would have gone and leads his half of the company there. Reunited and gleeful at seeing his family safe, he returns to his quieter self. Thorin is told of how he acted and is damn proud.

For as long as he lived, Fíli would never forget Mirkwood.

It was a thousand hostile sounds; the creaking of boughs and the clicking of insects. His boots sunk into a carpet of decay, lending greater danger in a place where a turned ankle or unlucky fall could mean catastrophe. Overhead, the trees pressed down with branches like arms, hearts like maws, and a smell like death. The hated forest path, which they had abandoned days ago, was now lost, and they could not find their way back. Despair crept in as hunger bore into lean bellies, and those who had entered the forest as proud dwarves began to quiver as paranoia seeped in around the real threats.

The menace was bad enough during the day, when through the green murk one could at least tell friend from foe. Yet at night an absolute darkness shrouded them, so black and terrible that no one could rest. When the company did attempt to sleep, Fíli and Kíli wedged themselves side by side, each grasping a weapon.

Distracted by otherworldly eyes all around them, Fíli wasn't aware his brother was awake until he felt the brush of stubble against his ear. "We should never have left the road. He doesn't know where we're going."

There was no longer any doubt they were going in circles. Earlier that day, they'd found Bofur’s lost tobacco pouch ahead of them on the path. At that time, Fíli looked to his uncle, just as the others had, and when they saw Thorin’s ashen expression, the group had dissolved into shoving and panicky cries. Thank Mahal for Bilbo. Their halfling friend seemed not so affected as the rest of them. He climbed a tree, and when he descended, speaking of breezes and butterflies, the mood had calmed. Still, the memory of Thorin's bewilderment was terrible, and Fíli didn't wonder that Kíli was dwelling on it.

Unwilling to speak ill of their uncle, yet understanding Kíli’s need for reassurance, Fíli turned onto his side so he could face his brother. "Do you remember the time we were lost in the foothills of Ered Luin?"

Fíli imagined the twitch of remembrance that had surely found its way onto Kíli’s face. "No one could find us, but you never panicked."

"Neither did you."

"I knew you would get us home," Kíli said.

Fíli’s brow notched, he remembered that first encounter with the full weight of responsibility he would carry; the knowledge that the fate of someone other than himself would be decided by where he lead. Yet, although that childhood forest had seemed so vast – as vast as Mirkwood to his inexperienced eyes – he had been anchored by his brother’s fist, knotted around his tunic.

Fíli continued, "Four days we chewed on dandelions, trying to find a star we knew – and cursing. You would not stop swearing, Kíli, do you remember? I thought Thorin was going to skin you alive during that phase, all while he was damning the Westerners for their influence. And then, when we were finally so weary we could barely walk, we found that village."

Kíli’s teeth set with an audible grind. "I'll never forget that village."

Fíli swallowed past that memory. "Yes, but Thorin found us, didn't he? Didn't stop for a bite to eat or a moment's rest." This he knew from Balin's stories, related to them in safety, when they were finally returned home. A true smile found its way onto his lips. "And that, in spite of his reputation for having no sense of direction."

Kíli stifled a snort. "Balin despairs of him, you know. The heir of Durin, wandering bemused under a few trees, in full view of the sun."

The brothers, who had been reared as much in the wilds as in halls of stone, shared an incredulity that such a thing was possible. "Better that our ancestors dwelt underground, I suppose."

"But we aren't underground now," Kíli said, all levity gone.

Fíli exhaled, a puff of breath not unlike the caress of the huge black moths that whispered past in this withered wood. He knew his brother did not mean to be rebellious, but his natural temperament was as turbulent as their uncle's, and regrettably his willfulness extended even as far as Thorin sometimes. Fíli himself refused to be anything but certain. His own faith was a carefully cultivated thing, and he allowed no vein of doubt to weaken it. They would be free of this forest. They would reach Erebor. Thorin would never relent until it happened. Groping first to find it, he squeezed his brother's wrist. “He’ll get us out of here, Kíli."

The pressure of Kíli’s answering grip put his heart at rest. The situation might seem dire, but it would take more than a comfortless forest full of fierce black squirrels and a poisonous stream to undermine the confidence they had in one other. Comforted now by the breathing of his comrades, by Kíli’s warm shoulder, by the familiar squeak of a glove around the leather hilt of his weapon, Fíli allowed his eyes to drift closed.

* * *

In the small hours of night, when the shadows themselves were cloaked by deeper shadow, Fíli awoke to a whisper like a cat’s paws padding over flagstone. He raised his head, though he could see nothing, not even the ridge of his own nose before his face. His body, wearied by the near-constant hallucinations, longed to lie back, but restlessness plucked at him. Straining, he listened to the pitch black, but all was silence, silence...

It was then that Fíli realized it was the silence which disturbed him. Where had the threatening calls and creaks gone? Fíli’s fingers curled around his weapon, fully alert. He opened his mouth to speak a warning, but before he could, the leaves exploded outward, and in their wake, great beasts broke in upon the company. Fíli had the brief impression of jaws and of gleaming dagger-like points affixed to many, many legs, and then a heavy body pinned him with its abdomen, shrieking in his face even as he raised his arm to parry the greedy, rasping mouth. He cried out when it dodged his clumsy defense and buried its fangs into his forearm. He struck out, aiming for the eyes, and it released him, but the burning pain remained, along with a light-headedness that almost prevented him from staggering to join his companions, now locked in combat.

Their horrified cries joined the unnerving shrieks of the spiders – huge, monstrous spiders. Moved by instinct, Fíli barely dodged the singing, deadly arch of Bofur's mattock, and he heard Ori's baleful wail of fear and rage as he fought, no doubt with little but his hands since his catapult would be useless in this murk and confusion. Dwalin's roar and Glóin's furious bellow rang out, but Thorin he did not hear, and even in the midst of battle, Fíli’s mind turned to those whose backs he could not put against his own and whose bodies he could not shield. He thought of Bilbo. Was someone with him? Was Kíli?

The spiders were fearsome opponents, and they had the advantage of terrain. They swarmed from the trees, which were coated with loathsome webs. Some strands caught Fíli’s wounded arm, and he yanked free. A hissing enemy hemmed him on one side, then another, moving so fast that even with their glowing eyes Fíli could not follow their movements. He swung blindly, trying to drive them back, but they were too ravenous, too fell, too ferocious.

At that very moment, Fíli heard his brother's cry. Desperate, he turned in that direction, but a spider's leg swept his knee and hobbled him. Then he was down, pressed suffocatingly into the underbrush. A penetrating pain pierced his side, and he screamed. Then the darkness filled with bulbous yellow eyes. His companions’ voices faded, and Fíli knew no more.

* * *

The world was a sober grey twilight without shape or form. Fíli drifted like a cork on the sea, bobbing at first upon and then under its waves, at times aware of himself – Fíli, sister-son of Thorin, brother of Kíli – at others only a dim, flickering being, swollen with dark waters. There was no air but the faintest, most infrequent breath, and that breath was like a dagger which Fíli swallowed greedily before the waves bore him down again, into deep coma.

Then suddenly pain poured in, and Fíli was seized by oxygen. He was no longer in the ocean, but in a tree: hanging, poisoned prey. There was a burning feeling in his chest as small hands tugged at the webs binding him. Blistering faerie lights spotted Fíli’s eyes, and his limbs jerked as he tried to free himself.

Bilbo pressed insistently against his chest, hissing, "Stop squirming, Fíli," and Fíli caught sight of a blade.

It required all his willpower to remain still as Bilbo sawed, and even more to keep from vomiting when he was finally hauled onto a branch. Bilbo rubbed circles into his back in a soothing but urgent rhythm while he fought nausea, the pain of the spider bites making him tremble all over. Fíli pawed feebly at his eyebrows and nose, but the sticky mess would not come free, and meanwhile Bilbo was speaking, coaxing, pressing one of his own knives into his hand.

Understanding came, and Fíli moved like an old man down the branch to the next captive. By now his wits were returning. They had been attacked by spiders. One of these bundles was his brother, the others his kin and companions. With fumbling hands, he hurried to haul another up with Bilbo, cutting the web until Bofur's red face was revealed, his thin moustaches caked and white. The older dwarf coughed and struggled, but Fíli held him down until his rolling eyes steadied.

On down the line, the others emerged. Most were barely capable of movement; Dori could do little but dribble bile down his chin, and Bombur fell to the ground below, rolling onto his back and moaning. Finally, finally, Fíli found dark hairs tangled in a web. Only when Kíli’s face became visible, his lips almost blue but his eyes already blinking, did Fíli breathe again. He gripped his stupid, heavy little brother against his shoulder and panted with relief.

"I'll get the last," Bilbo said, leaving Fíli to deal with Kíli, who was still regaining consciousness.

"Don’t move," Fíli commanded, busy using his knife, his fingers.

Kíli stopped straining and sagged against his brother. A short cough made it out of his throat in place of a laugh. "Knew you'd get me out."

Fíli rasped through gritted teeth. "You knew no such thing. We'd all be dead if it weren't for Bilbo. We might still be dead. The spiders are distracted, but they'll be back."

"I can't feel my fingers," Kíli muttered. "Numb all over."

Fíli gave him a push, hoisting them both to their knees so they could begin their unsteady climb to the forest floor where the others were gathering. "As long as your toes are working. We have to get out of here."

Kíli giggled. "Bifur only has seven, you know."

"What?"

"Toes."

Only filial benevolence kept Fíli from shoving his brother off the branch and watching him knock his idiot head on the way down. As it was, Kíli lost his footing at the final approach and – grasping Fíli’s jacket – sent them both plunging the last few lengths. Dwalin snatched Kíli up by the collar and put him on his feet, thrusting a rock into his hands. Fíli saw his old mentor’s face in the eerie phosphorus light put off by the webs, grim but aware. More aware than the others, some of whom were barely upright.

The unnatural cries of the spiders reached them, echoing as they came closer. Fíli took new grip on his knife, but Bilbo chose just that moment to appear. He shoved them, shouting at their backs. "Run. I'll do the stinging. I said run, you fools!"

So they ran, headlong through a corridor of darkness that bent under their poisoned legs and lashed about their swimming heads. Soon the spiders swarmed, darting in to bite and strike with their legs. Fíli retaliated, guarding what he thought was their flank. He knew that at one point a blazing blue sword joined them, snapping about and driving their foes back for a moment, but there were always, always more.

Their flight seemed to last forever, and the forest seized their minds again, twisting everything into an ever growing circle. Fíli’s lungs heaved. "Kíli," he cried in a wavering voice, wanting to hear his brother say his name. He reached out his hand, his vision tilting crazily, but though the shadows warped around him like the figures of his friends, his fingers went through them like mist. Finally, he dropped to one knee, and once again, every light went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably already obvious that I integrate canon only as much as it suits the story, so expect a great deal of preferential splicing: a bit of the pugnacious, Jacksonesque characterization of the dwarvish characters mixed with details of J.R.R. Tolkien's original tale. Unfortunately, Fíli had little opportunity for development in either, but Dean O’Gorman’s impression of quiet dignity was sufficient for me. As for the other members of Fíli’s company, part of the unedited prompt was a request for both older and younger companions who gain respect for Fíli during their journey. I wrestled a lot before casting them, and Bofur was a very late edition. However, in the end he was far too lively a companion to leave behind.
> 
> My favorite kind of comment is when readers tell me a moment which stood out to them. Even copy & pasting a line which you enjoyed is rich feedback. Thank you! :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Fíli and the others struggle to be free of the entanglement of Mirkwood.


	2. Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits

When Fíli woke, he was still in the thrall of Mirkwood. Turning heavily onto his side, Fíli stifled a groan. Burning lines cut across his face, and he blinked blearily as he tried to reorient himself. How far had they traveled from the nest of spiders? Where were the others?

A sound came from nearby, and Fíli’s hands flew to the sheathes of his weapons. Of course, the knives were gone, even the dagger Bilbo had returned to him. Fíli thought he remembered plunging it through tough chitin and feeling it lodge there. Everything else had been picked from him, like bones under a flaying knife, by the spiders' delicate claws. The sound came again, this time recognizable as someone vomiting. Fíli pushed himself onto wobbling legs.

He found Ori with his arms curled around his belly. They hadn't eaten properly in days, and nothing much was coming up, but the poor fellow still heaved with his whole body. Dropping beside him, Fíli rolled his fellow dwarf onto his knees so he wouldn't choke. "That’s it, Ori. Nothing left in there. Push your stomach muscles out slowly. Can you swallow?"

The convulsions eased, and Ori went limp. Fíli rubbed the back of Ori's neck, but, unfortunately, there wasn't time for him to fully recover. They were alone, in hostile territory. It was imperative they find the others. Fíli helped the younger dwarf to his feet. Ori made a wavering attempt to stay upright, but his legs wouldn't hold. Anxious to be moving, Fíli took his weight. "Come on, then, Ori. Lean on me."

They hadn't been traveling long before they found Bifur. He came staggering through the tree trunks, grunting in Khuzdul, his beard streaked a ghostly white. Profoundly relieved to see another of the company, Fíli seized the older dwarf by the arm without thinking. "Bifur!"

He got bashed across the face for his trouble, and for a moment all Fíli saw were flecks of light. When he came to, Bifur was squinting at him. He gave Fíli’s face a stiff, awkward pat, directly over the throbbing spot where his blow had connected. Despite this, Fíli accepted Bifur’s arm when it was offered. It wasn’t as though he could blame someone for defending themselves in this wretched gloom.

He clasped Bifur's shoulder reassuringly. " _Therek ikhlit, Udmai._ "

Bifur nodded. He gestured toward a woozy Ori, who looked as though at least some of his senses had returned. He was rubbing his ginger hair mournfully. "We're lost, aren't we?"

Fíli refused to offer false assurances. "Can you walk?"

Ori could, but he was still unsteady and ended up anchoring himself with a fistful of Fíli’s jacket. Bifur gazed at Fíli as though expecting him to lead the way. Fíli wondered at their unspoken confidence. His head was vibrating like a hammer that had struck an anvil. His forearm and side ached fiercely, and he felt hot and cold in intervals. Yet here were these two, waiting.

As they made their way, Fíli took in the lines of the forest, which had grown less dense. He recognized some of the trees now and knew that was a good sign. Soon, a discernable wash of pale light penetrated the canopy, and so it was by sight that they spotted more of their scattered party. Fíli put his hand on Ori's shoulder. "Look, Ori."

"Nori!" The younger dwarf bolted toward his kin, who barely avoided being barreled over by his brother’s exuberance. Bofur, who stood beside him, barked out a laugh, pounding the younger dwarf on the shoulder while Ori went on and on about how afraid he'd been that Nori had been slain, and had he seen Dori, and where had they _been_ , and –

As he came closer, Fíli could see that Nori's posture was strangely bowed. The densely woven plaits of his hair had become tangled with the spider webs, effectively blinding him. Moved by sympathy, Fíli gripped Nori by the shoulder. He was only a little startled when Nori's hand darted up, grasping his in return.

Bofur cleared his throat. He had lost his raggedy hat sometime during their wild flight, and his twin braids drooped forlornly down his neck. However, his black eyes had grown bright now that they were together. "You're a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “We've been searching for hours, and I was starting to think Nori and I were the only ones in these parts."

Grunting, Nori glared more or less in the general direction of his younger brother. "He was fretting, wasn't he? Gets it from Dori, that nagging mother hen."

Ori bristled. "Maybe if you stayed out of trouble, we wouldn't worry so much."

Any further conversation was cut off as a new figure emerged from the gloom. Bedraggled though he was, Dwalin was nonetheless easily recognizable as he strode towards them, eyes smoldering. "Keep it down. You'll get us all killed."

Nori glared through his veil of hair and cobweb, but Fíli felt a tight coil unwinding inside him. "Mister Dwalin," he said, offering his arm. "Well met. Have you seen Thorin?" 

Dwalin wagged his head. "Afraid not. I've been wandering for ages, but you’re the first I've found." He eyed the others – scrawny Ori in his soiled knit work, the blinded Nori, Bofur with his half grin, and the oblivious, damaged Bifur. A line drew down his brow.

Fíli was disappointed there was no news. Nonetheless, his heart was easier. He had tremendous respect for Dwalin, and having him here made this wretched situation seem less untenable. "The good news is that the trees have changed. We can't be very far from the end of Mirkwood."

Ori asked, "How do you figure that?" 

With an effort, Fíli didn't smile at his tone, knowing Ori was more a scholar than a woodsman. Indeed, woodsman was word uncommonly used to describe any dwarf. Yet Fíli had lived much of his life in forests. Since they were children, Kíli had dragged him along on all kinds of expeditions, camping out under the stars and harassing the hunters and rangers they encountered for their knowledge and experience. Kíli loved to learn about every growth of moss, every edible root, every distinctly shaped leaf, and Fíli had learned alongside him. He knew the bark and branches by their color and shape, knew where they grew. It was a knowledge that now served him well.

"These are black alders. They're more likely found at a forest's edge. If we keep to them, we should find other signs to lead us out of here."

Ori was nodding, and Bifur thumped a forearm against his fist, ready to proceed. Nori made no objection, though he frowned, while Bofur waited for direction with a smile. Only Dwalin made no word or movement. He stood rigidly, and in his broad shoulders Fíli read doubt. Finally, Dwalin said, "I dinnae know if you're right. But we cannae just sit here. Lead on."

* * *

Using the trees as a guide, the reduced company traveled for miles. Always, they kept their heads up, tense for any threat or the sight of another dwarf (or hobbit), but they saw no one. In time, the light grew stronger and less green, until eventually they were blinking as tiny patches of sky became visible for the first time in weeks. With the sun, they were able to find east, and it was to the east that they traveled. Soon the ground grew less knobby with root and more spongy. The trees changed again, and in a blinding, sudden moment, the forest ended. Stretched out before them was the River Running and the lands east of Mirkwood. Lands Fíli had never seen.

Ori's chin dropped, too amazed to speak until his brother grunted, "What d'ya see?"

Fíli had been looking into the far distance, squinting to discern Erebor or some other landmark he might know. Now he looked less beyond and more before them. A thick stench hung in the air, and after a short stretch of dark soil extending down the incline, the ground became wet. From where they stood, he could see a labyrinth of twisting watery passages, like a green snake knotted around itself a thousand times.

Ori admitted, "Marshes. I see marshes. I don't remember this on any map."

“I’ve heard of the Long Marshes,” said Bofur, scratching his head. “But I didn’t know they extended so far south.”

"The land has changed," Dwalin said, shaking his head. He looked almost as bewildered as Ori. "I cannae believe it. There was no bog here."

Fíli inhaled the unmistakable odor of stagnant water and peat. Already, small insects were beginning to bother him; he slapped his hand and looked down to find a prick of blood. "It's been one hundred and seventy years since the dwarves of Erebor passed this way. Although, that even Gandalf didn't know to tell us –" Dismayed, Fíli shook his head. "Maybe it's like the forest. The Greenwood going to spiders, and ill airs, and poisoned water. Maybe something dark is coming into the world, and it’s changing nature itself."

Dwalin snorted. "No matter how it got there, at least it's not this stinking forest. They'll be food and water. Then we can decide how best to get back to Thorin."

He spoke truth; they were all desperately hungry and thirsty, though their tight bellies had by this time forgotten what it meant to have regular meals. And while none he knew had been so vast, Fíli was comfortable with bottomland. There would be conies and snakes, wading birds and edible plants. Yes – he raised his chin – this was a good development. Here, they could regroup and gain strength and make a plan to find his uncle and brother again.

A hand thumped on his shoulder, and he looked behind to see Bifur staring at the marshes. Fíli smiled at the strange old veteran. "Onward, eh?"

In a rare moment of certain connection, Bifur looked directly at Fíli and nodded.

* * *

Fíli sighed with pleasure. Though mucky, the water felt cool on his face, soothing the swollen red places where the webs had grafted. He found the threads grew pliable when wet, and with determined scrubbing, he’d been able to work most of it out of his skin. His clothes were another matter, and he realized with reluctance that he would have to discard the fur sewn into the collar. It had been given to him by his uncle as a visible sign of his station. Still, if a king needed the remains of a dead animal to mark his nobility, he didn't much deserve the title. Fíli cast aside the ruined burden, then straightened his shoulders. Much lighter, though he probably looked more the role of vagabond now, his apparel ripped and ragged and covered with mud.

The others were in the midst of their own disappointing attempts to be free of Mirkwood. Ori had been the most successful; his beard wasn't much thicker than Kíli’s, and by combing with his fingers and rubbing with sand, his straight hair had yielded most of the sticky mess. Bifur seemed unmoved by the webs. He sat contentedly in the shallow water, his voice rumbling over a song Fíli didn't recognize. Dwalin too, with his bald pate, seemed more interested in scouting the area than in cleaning. It was Nori who had suffered most, and even now he seemed hopelessly entrenched.

Fíli joined him on the embankment where he sat pulling at his beard. Concerned by the edge of panic he sensed, Fíli knelt. In spite of Nori's efforts, he could just barely see two tired eyes peeking out, surrounded by flesh swollen with scratches. Gently, Fíli probed the matted hair, but in the end he could see there was only going to be one solution, and it made his heart sink.

Bofur joined them. "He's stuck good and fast, isn’t he?"

Ori squatted by his brother's side. “What are we going to do?”

Nori must have already known his fate, yet even so, his dismay was palpable when Fíli voiced the words no dwarf in Middle Earth ever wanted to hear. "Nori, the only way we're going to get this free is by cutting it."

Dwalin pulled something from his belt and offered it to Fíli. It was a knife, very small but sharp. Taking the blade by its handle, Fíli looked at Nori. To have one's beard cut was a disgrace, and he knew Nori's pride. It was something he held onto as fiercely as any dwarf, even as the strain of their exile had pressed him to make difficult choices. Rumors of his lifestyle were known to the company, but Fíli had no interest in being his judge.

Fíli gripped the knife. He’d been just sixteen when he first woke to find that a very fine layer of hair had grown on his chin. It had been so light, fairer even than the hair on his head, that he hadn't noticed until Kíli burst into tears. They'd both still been boys, but Kíli had taken his brother’s sudden sign of maturity hard. Their mother could not console him, and only Thorin's rebuke – "Childishness is more than the appearance of your face!" – had silenced him. Yet that night, Fíli had gestured for his brother to join him on the bed.

Lip jutting, Kíli insisted, "I'm _not_ pouting.”

Fíli looked at him with the exasperated fondness of all older brothers, then took out the blade. Its keen edge reflected the light of the candle, and Kíli’s eyes became large dark buttons at the sight of it. Putting the edge against his cheek, Fíli said, "I can wait."

Even if he had been older, this probably wouldn't have ended well, as shaving wasn't a regular practice among dwarves. As it was, Fíli cut himself and bled all over the blankets. He still had the scar, a small, white nick now hidden under his beard. Still, it had been worth it – both the scar and Thorin's disapproval – because even though the stubble had returned, darker and thicker than before, that sacrifice had been worth something to his brother. Now, once more, Fíli found himself taking up a blade on another's behalf.

"There's no help for it," he said, putting the blade to the thin moustache on his own face and, in a movement that didn't hesitate, cut it free. The small braid laid in his hand like a stricken seedling, but Fíli took only the time to work the silver clasp free before letting the strands fall into the bog, there to be collected by a nesting animal or absorbed into the earth. With deft cuts, he relieved himself of his remaining braids, the other at his mouth, the four at his temples – and then, with barely a grimace – the long one at the crown of his head. Afterwards, he offered the knife to Nori.

Nori was staring, though his gaze was barely discernable. Fingers twitched toward the knife, but then withdrew. Grunting, he settled back and said hoarsely, "You do it."

Fíli was moved by the request and the trust it implied. He took hold of Nori's chin and began sawing with care. It was difficult work at times to cut the hair free without maiming its owner. Finally, though, Nori’s face was more bare than it had likely been in decades. He sat rubbing his chin, looking bewildered. Fíli could understand. The breeze on his face was strange, and he felt naked. Still, Nori's calm demeanor reassured him he had done what was right.

Laughing, Bofur pounded Nori on the back. “A close shave has done you wonders. You look fifty years younger.”

Dwalin was standing by, a witness to the scene, his face unreadable. Fíli tried to hand him back his weapon; however, the older dwarf shook his head. "No, it belongs to you now," he said. "By right of blood."

Fíli was bemused. Of course he knew the lore surrounding the redeeming of blades, yet no blood had been split this day. Nonetheless, he tucked the tiny knife into his belt, comforted by the familiar press of dwarvish iron.

Their next goal: food. He looked around, examining what might be near at hand. A growth of cattails immediately attracted his attention, and he smiled. Once, near the Grey Havens, a ranger they had met pointed out just such a plant, calling it the market of the wilds. "You may eat the roots in season," he said, cutting away the fibrous outer sheathe to show them the milky white interior of the stem. "This may be eaten raw or boiled, and the fruit, when its cob grows, may be ground into a flour. Coarse eating, but filling and good. Remember it well, little dwarves."

Kíli had been so fascinated that he hadn’t even taken offence when called "little". Fíli, too, remembered it, and he reached for the plant now. It would be a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Dwalin and Nori nearly come to blows over the path they should take.


	3. Quarrels

With their bellies full, the dwarves recovered some of their spirits. They were strangers in a strange land, yet the breeze and the sinking sun made the world seem more golden and less threatening than before. Bofur even had strength enough to joke, passing remarks about his cousin's bedraggled appearance until Bifur shoved him into a puddle. Not that it had any affect. The former tinker sat submerged straight through to his drawers and laughed, his good humor hardly dampened.

The others were not so lighthearted. Dwalin had not ceased scanning the long horizon, and Nori was growing restless. "We should head south," Nori suggested. "There are villages on the outskirts of Gondor. I've traveled in that kingdom before, and the men there are friendly toward dwarves."

Fíli knew that such a journey could take weeks, and so he searched for a way to voice his disapproval without giving offense. Dwalin had no such restraint. He snorted, derision clear in the cut of his eyes. "That's a fool idea if I ever heard one."

Stiffening, Nori seemed to grow in size, like a rooster whose feathers had been ruffled. Nori been reserved in the presence of Thorin, but his strong personality was not so eclipsed now. There was none toward whom he felt differential, and so the robustly independent agent of fortune was reemerging. "We have no weapons, no supplies. We can eat foliage until we turn green, but an axe or mattock isn't likely to be found sprouting from the ground."

Ori, whose face had turned pale at the mention of feeding on vegetation alone, said, "He's right about that. I feel naked without my catapult."

Bofur weighed in. "I have experience with the men of the South, too, and I agree they would trade with us, but we don't have anything to exchange. We'd have to work, and by then –"

"By then we might as well abandon Erebor and the quest," Dwalin interrupted, speaking to Nori. "To say nothing of the king you swore to honor."

It was a challenge, and Nori wasn't fool enough to mistake it. Coldly, he said, "I honor Thorin."

Dwalin's voice lowered and his accent deepened until each word emerged gravely and thick. "Yet you would turn tail and run. I might have known it of someone like you."

Fíli was alarmed by the hostility burgeoning between the two. Ori and Bofur had both stiffened, and Nori himself was rigid as a bowstring. Slowly, he drew even with Dwalin, almost treading on his toes as he straightened to his fullest height. "Do you have something to say to me, son of Fundin? You and your brother act so high and mighty, but you aren't the only ones kin to the house of Durin, and I won't be disparaged or called a coward by the likes of you."

Dwalin's hand shot out. Knowing the power of that fist, Fíli interceded. Forcing himself between them, he thrust Dwalin back with all his strength, conscious of the fact that Dwalin’s shoulders were a bracket over his own and that Nori’s blistering glare was no less heated. "Stop, this is no time to fight among ourselves."

Nori didn’t speak, though Fíli could read his aggression. Dwalin, on the other hand, had plenty to say. "This deserter would abscond from the company, abandon Thorin, abandon our quest. I said from the beginning he had no place in the company – the gutless, purse-cutting –"

Fíli interrupted before Dwalin said something that Nori could not honorably ignore. More than enough had been said already. "This is a time to make a decisions, not quarrels," he said. "I agree that we should try to rejoin the others if we can – but, Dwalin, we cannot retrace our steps into Mirkwood. We may lose ourselves rather than find the company, and without weapons or provisions we could well make a meal for the spiders." Seeing a smirk appear on Nori’s face, Fíli was prompt to continue. "I also would not go to the men of the South. We might find work and goods, but it would not reunite us with our brethren, and that is our clear duty."

"Where then?" Dwalin asked.

Fíli knew his old teacher was barely restraining his temper. "If they are with Thorin," he answered and swallowed, for his brother’s fate rested on that hope, "then he will lead them out of Mirkwood. We should meet him at our original destination."

"The Lonely Mountain?"

"No, Lake-town," Fíli clarified. He had spent hours looking at these lands on maps with his uncle and Balin, tracing the river with his finger past the ruined city of Dale – a mere smear of ink to him – on to the very edge of the mountain. He knew the shape of it, could see its curve in his inner eye: the lake with a city in its center. The size of the marshes was unexpected, but they had always planned to come this way. Fíli was fairly sure he could lead them to the human settlement in the north.

There was silence as the group considered. No doubt they were wrestling with how certain they were the others had survived to make such a meeting possible. Fíli drew Dwalin’s attention. "I want to be back with them no less than you, but we must assume they are wise enough to escape the forest themselves. Only a fool attempts a rescue by walking into a snare, or so I've heard it said."

The maxim was Dwalin’s own, and Fíli was rewarded when his mentor's shoulders lost their tension and he admitted, "You’re right."

"But how are we going to get past all this?" Ori looked with despair at the treacherous ground, which extended as far as the eye could see. As the final vestiges of daylight dimmed, a fog seemed to be rising, covering the land in an eerie shroud. The haunting "Oo! Oo!" of an unseen fowl made goose pimples break out over their flesh, and suddenly the breeze that had seemed so welcoming felt damp and cold.

Fíli took all this in with as much impartiality as he could muster. "We cannot stay so near Mirkwood.” Even now the ill humors of the forest were setting his teeth on edge. No, he wanted to be well quit of the wood and the influence it had on their senses. "The marsh would provide food, but I would not travel there long. I say we cut across until we reach the river. We can follow it until we reach Lake-town."

Nori no longer looked mutinous, but the lines of his face were doubtful. Yet not of Fíli, it seemed, for when he spoke it was to say, "My skills won't be much help here."

"Nonsense." Fíli clapped his hand on Nori’s arm. "You have a keen eye, and I know you have experience as a hunter and forager."

Dwalin spoke under his breath. "A poacher and a thief, more like." 

Fíli made his frown of disapproval as strong as a he dared, and thankfully Dwalin said no more. "Someone with experience living off the land will never go amiss in a place like this. You'll help me guide them, Nori."

Ori’s approach was sheepish, but eager. "What about me?"

Fíli smiled. Ori had a defenselessness that Kíli had never possessed, but the puppyish eagerness was much the same. He bent and, using the little knife Dwalin had given him, began freeing the leather straps which bound his boots. Strips torn from his tunic would make a useable alternative; the straps, on the other hand, would serve better as a weapon. He tossed them to Ori. "I know you’re a dead shot with your catapult, Ori, but how are you with a sling?"

Ori’s hands moved over the leather, already turning them round, refashioning them. "I used to use one all the time," he said. "It was my favorite –" His words were cut of as Ori flushed, and Fíli knew that he had meant to say 'toy', but that was fine. There had certainly been a near genocide of small birds and squirrels the year Kíli had received his first “toy” bow.

Bifur needed no instructions. He ducked his chin. Bemused, Fíli returned his nod. What he wouldn't give to understand what the old dwarf was thinking beneath his inscrutable grunts and silences. Bofur, on the other hand, was pleased to follow where the others led. He looked at Fíli with relief, saying, "That's settled then."

A glance showed that Dwalin was not as convinced as the others were. His defined forearms were crossed, and he was wearing the same frown he had when, as a lad, Fíli had tried to lift his uncle’s sword and had been unable to do so. Strangely, Fíli experienced the same emotion he had then: of being unsuited and unprepared. Yet Fíli had labored under insecurities of that sort since boyhood, when he and others first understood that Thorin would not marry or beget children, making Fíli suddenly quite important. Usually, Kíli’s presence made the burden easier, but his brother was not here.

Dwalin said, "You really think it would be best to cross territory we do not know without even looking for our friends? What if we should get to Lake-town and wait in vain for Thorin because he cannot meet us?"

Fíli answered, "I won’t say I’m not daunted by the idea of trekking across these marshes, but I’m certain we can do it. As for Thorin, I don’t think it’s possible for us to find him, or I would be the first to turn back." A burst of insight kindled, and he realized that Dwalin was also missing a brother, to say nothing of a king. However well his gruffness covered it, he had to be anxious. "All of my family is in that darkness, Mister Dwalin. I would not walk one step farther from them if there was even a particle of hope. Yet I believe we must trust them, as they are surely trusting us. Thorin needs no rescue from me."

There was a flicker in Dwalin’s eye, which Fíli could not read. Yet when Dwalin did finally respond, it was to grunt and turned his head. "Alright, Laddie," he said. "We’ll do it your way and hike through this godforsaken swamp. What do you propose we do first?"

There was censure hidden in that acquiescence, but Fíli could bear it. He took in the sky of long-winged birds. Breathing in, he could smell plant life and water. He shared his thoughts. "For tonight, a fire," he said. "And sleep, if we can manage it. I don’t know about you, but I've never been so happy to see stars."

* * *

That night, the remaining dwarves of Thorin's company fell instantly asleep, so tired they barely had the sense to set a watch. Fíli was no less exhausted. His side ached with an abiding pain, and his arm had swollen so tightly against his bracer than he was forced to unbuckle it. His head was leaden with weariness, but it was no use. He could not sleep.

Rising, he stepped over the outstretched arm of Bofur, who was snoring. He heard Ori's sleepy whispers and Nori's huffy, discontented muttering. These he passed. When he stopped, his boots sunk into the spongy soil. Nocturnal sounds abounded; crickets and swaying reed, and the deep bass croaking of a toad.

 _’You remember what they say about a frog croaking, Fíli,'_ spoke a voice that existed only in his mind. His brother’s eyes flashed with humor. _'One croak is nothing, two croaks will steal your luck away, and –"_

"Three for bad dreams." Fíli’s murmured. A dense, tight lump filled his throat.

There was a heavy tread at his back as Dwalin emerged from the darkness. "It won't be your watch for a few hours yet,” he said. “You should be sleeping."

Fíli didn’t speak of how the barren spot beside him had thwarted any attempt at sleep; he’d been reprimanded far too often about how closely he bound himself to his brother. Instead, he offered a partial explanation: "The forest presses too near for my comfort."

"A warrior should be able to rest whenever the opportunity arises." It was a familiar chastisement, but it wasn’t harsh, not tonight. Instead, both dwarves stared into the swamp as the lunar light reflected off channels of water.

"We're in a tight spot, Mister Dwalin."

Dwalin heaved a sigh. "Make no mistake. Barely a sharp edge between us, and a very dangerous road ahead."

Fíli’s eyes fluttered closed, knowing what he said was true. Mirkwood was cloaked in madness, while the Long Marshes were unknown. Nor could they forget their most deadly pursuers, Azog and his orcs, whose foul nature might lend them a swifter passage through the Greenwood then the dwarves had found. Yet in spite of these factors, one thing seemed clear to Fíli. "Lake-town is our best hope. I know you disagree, but I can think of no better path."

"It may be that you're right," Dwalin said, but despite his words, his tone was disheartening.

 _'He fears for Balin,'_ Fíli reminded himself. The sons of Fundin were not overly sentimental, but Fíli had seen them in rare moments when they looked at one another with such bonds of kinship they could not be mistaken. "Do you think they’re together? Do you think they’re safe?"

Dwalin didn’t respond. Instead, he looked over his shoulder at their sleeping companions. "Not thirteen of the best nor brightest; that's what my brother called us in the Shire. Now we're fewer still, and I fear we're dredging the very bottom of the barrel."

Strong-willed Nori, with his ignoble reputation. Ori the scholar. Bofur the herald of calamity. And unpredictable Bifur, so maimed by the wars he could not speak clearly. _'And me."_ With a pang of clarity, Fíli thought, _'Had you your pick of Durins, I would not have been your choice either, is that not so, Mister Dwalin?’_

Kíli spoke at times of his secret fear that he had not earned the approval of his elders, but Fíli knew better. His brother was full of the brash fighting spirit that dwarvish warriors like Dwalin valued above all. Fíli, on the other hand, was cool, even in the heat of battle. He valued retreat, timing, and retort. Parry as much as thrust. But these things weren't very like a dwarf, and at times he felt a thread of disapprobation from his old mentor.

Fíli said, "You once told me that any object could be a weapon in the hands of a master."

Dwalin huffed. "You always had a talent for bringing out my own words against me. But there's a great deal at stake here. Is there no way I can convince you to change your mind?"

Dwalin knew, then, that the others were committed to following him. Fíli wasn't sure how, but somehow he’d taken possession of this small company. It was a burden to him already, and he longed to lean on Dwalin’s wisdom and experience. Yet Fíli knew going north to Lake-town was right. He knew also that Nori would not submit to Dwalin. The strain could break the group, something Fíli could not allow to happen.

It seemed he had no choice. "My mind’s made up, Mister Dwalin."

Fíli might have imagined it, but there was a kind of softening around Dwalin’s mouth, half hidden beneath his mustaches. "So be it. We'll have to do what we can and hope it's enough."

The boggy, oppressive mist stirred, moved by a faint wind. The stench filled Fíli’s nostrils as the marshes stretched out, widening until they were all that he could see. Beyond them was the river, and upstream was the Long Lake. Within the confines of his own mind, Fíli wondered, _’That is where you will take them, isn't it, Uncle?’_

A heavy hand pressed his back. "Try to rest," Dwalin said. "I'll wake that scoundrel Nori when the time comes, so sleep deeply if you can. There may not be another chance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Bilbo finds _most_ of his friends in Thranduil's prison, but some are still missing. Where are they?


	4. Into the Mire of Complacency

In the halls of the Elven King, darkness pressed into the corners where Bilbo crept. It was a different darkness than the goblin tunnels – one not so fathomless nor so horrible. And yet, while this darkness did not stink of rotting flesh or echo with bloodthirsty cries, it was still terrible because Bilbo was alone.

Desperate to find his friends, Bilbo searched the passages endlessly. It took days of patient observation, but at last Bilbo discovered the cell where the final dwarf prisoner had been sequestered. He waited until the smallest hours, long after the sentry made his passage, then crept to the heavy wooden door.

"Kíli?" he whispered, pressing his lips to the keyhole.

There was a pause, followed by someone shuffling on their knees. A trembling voice spoke: "Fíli?"

Bilbo's heart squeezed. "No, Kíli. Are you alright?"

"Bilbo." Kíli spoke his name without feeling, and Bilbo could imagine his head sinking. The disappointment was brief, however, as the significance of Bilbo's presence registered. There was a thump as two hands slammed against the door. "Bilbo, you scoundrel! You'll make a burglar yet. Have you just found your way into the stronghold?"

Peering uneasily down the passage, Bilbo hoped the sound wouldn't carry. "I've been here for days actually," he explained. "I've been exploring. Hiding. Looking for you and the others. But this place is a labyrinth. It’s taken time."

Hope flared in Kíli’s disembodied voice. "And...did you find everyone?" 

Bilbo’s heart sunk to disappoint him once more. "I'm sorry, Kíli,” he said. “I don’t know where Fíli is.”

Silence reigned for a moment, then Kíli asked, “Who have you found?”

“Thorin and Balin. Óin and Glóin. Dori and Bombur. You. Everyone else is still missing, and I don’t think they’re here. The guards don’t speak of them or carry provisions anywhere else. I think the others might still be in the forest.”

Mirkwood, that den of spiders. Bilbo closed his eyes, imagining that possibility. He’d known many foul places during this journey, but not even Golem's clammy chamber or the gristly, frenetic heat of the goblin den could match that wood of nightmares and nooses, fat black moths and insect eyes in the night.

There was a sigh, and Bilbo knew that Kíli had sat down on the flagstones, his back resting against the door. "Are the others alright?"

Bilbo sat down as well and stared at the ceiling. "Dori wept when I told him I couldn't find his brothers."

Kíli said, "This is Ori's first time away from home."

Bilbo, who until the last few months had not set foot beyond the outskirts of Buckland, felt a pang of sympathy. “I’m working on a plan, but for the moment you’ll have to sit tight. At least it was elves who captured you and not those beastly orcs.”

Indeed, though Thranduil had declared his captives could rot for a hundred years in his dungeon, it appeared he did not intend for them to starve. The dwarves had received food and water, even a perfunctory kind of medical care, the wounds from the spiders treated. Succor from so bitter an enemy was hard for Thorin to accept, but Bilbo was thankful. It gave him time.

"I'm sure you'll find a way," Kíli said, but though his words were affirming, Bilbo could tell his spirits were low.

To distract him, Bilbo said, "At home, we tell stories to pass the time. I barely remember the better ones, it seems so long since I heard them, but perhaps dwarves have tales of their own?"

"Ori’s good at that sort of thing," Kíli said. "He memorizes the old tales, even recited the entire _Nâla Gabil_ once, showing away in front of Fíli. He thinks the sun rises and sets on my brother, you know."

Bilbo smiled. That did sound just like Ori. It reminded him how youthful some in their company were, though a dwarvish upbringing must be very different from that of hobbits. It was unlikely that Fíli and Kíli, as nephews of a king, had spent their childhood chasing fireflies and dreaming of elves. Moved by curiosity, he asked, "Have _you_ ever been so far from home?”

"I traveled with trading caravans, and I've visited the Iron Hills, but I've never been this far West," Kíli admitted.

"Did you travel with caravans often?"

A grunt of assent. "Guarding wagons is dull, but I managed to find adventures." After a pause, he admitted, "My mother thinks I'm reckless."

Bilbo had known Kíli for months only, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the lad’s impulsive bravery getting him into trouble growing up. “Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. Thorin seems much the same.”

Kíli snorted. “We’re often likened to one another. Stubborn-headed, short-tempered, convinced we're in the right.” He cleared his throat. “Not so, Fíli.”

“No?” Bilbo had found it harder to learn the ways of the older son of Dís. Their first real encounter was the night the Company left the Shire. Bilbo had been huddled before that first evening fire, trembling and overwhelmed, when Fíli bent toward him and tucked a handkerchief into his hand. “It's hard to be away from home,” he said, and then went back to his tobacco pouch without another word. A small gesture, perhaps, but meaningful. Bilbo still had that handkerchief folded inside his pocket.

Kíli said, “Fíli tries to keep me out of trouble, but it rarely works. More often than not, I end up leading _him_ into mischief."  
Bilbo's chuckled. "Perhaps that's the way of older siblings."

There was the distinct thunk of a head falling back against oak. "Bilbo, where is he?"

"He's probably already making good time to Erebor.” Bilbo refused to believe anything else. “They'll expect us to join them, so we can't let them down. In the meantime, I wouldn't mind a story about the reckless young Kíli and his brother, Fíli."

At first, Bilbo wasn't sure if Kíli would accept the distraction he offered, but finally Kíli said, "You know of Ered Luin, the lands were the dwarves of Erebor settled after Smaug ravaged the Lonely Mountain."

"I've heard it spoken of, yes. Hobbits do sometimes have dealings with dwarves, you know."

“Yes. I'd been to the Shire before, once. Ered Luin is green, too, though as you climb into the foothills, everything becomes darker, almost blue. There are trees of all kinds, taller and straighter than columns, and the water is as clear and cold as glass. You'd like it, I think."

"It sounds lovely," Bilbo admitted.

"Most of the time it was lovely, but I remember a year when birds laid siege to the countryside."

To Bilbo, birds were gay little things with russet caps who sang at dawn and danced on the windowsill when he left them dried bits of berry and toast crumbles. "Birds?"

"Yes, starlings. Awful creatures – territorial, dirty, loud. One year when I was a lad, a huge flock of them migrated into our settlement and the neighboring farmland. Mostly they eat insects, which wouldn't have been so bad, but they also pick seed out of the ground and fruit off the vine. Aggressive beasties, too. They drove Fíli mad."

Bilbo, who had rarely seen the more easy-going of the two brothers at any higher pitch of emotion than slightly disgruntled, found this difficult to imagine. His strongest memory of Fíli was of him humming around his pipe as he sharpened one of his many smallish knives.

"I know what you're thinking," Kíli said. "He does have an unusually even temper for a Durin. Uncle always says he despairs of me, but between the two of us, Bilbo, I've always thought it was Fíli he least understood."

Bilbo considered this. His own father, Drogo, had been the most Baggins-like hobbit in a long history of Bagginses. He’d been intolerant of what he called 'flights of fancy', and Bilbo's desire to roam the forest paths, to explore and read adventures, had aggravated him. As they both grew older, they had more in common, but Bilbo still remembered what it was like to be the son of a father who was so different. "Perhaps he's more like his mother?"

Kíli laughed. "Never was there a dwarf more passionate than Dís, daughter of Thráin."

“So he’s the odd duck. It’s funny. I never would have thought it. He's so –" Bilbo searched for a word that felt appropriate. "Dutiful."

"Fíli’s always worked hard to meet expectations,” said Kíli, an edge touching his voice. Then he huffed. "But don't go thinking of him as a paragon of virtue. He's dogged as a cur when he's made up his mind, and he has a tendency to tell you where you went wrong only _after_ you’re in a mess. Not to mention he sulks like a badger –"

Bilbo had no siblings, but there were cousins enough on his mother's side, and he liked to hear that familial tone, which held both aggravation and affection at once. Abruptly, he asked, "Why did Fíli hate the birds?"

"What?"

"The birds," Bilbo clarified. "You said they drove him mad."

"Oh. It was his hair," Kíli said, as though that should have been obvious. "The color, you know. It catches the light under the sun, and starlings are mad for anything that shines. They pecked him bloody stealing bits of it for their nests. Funniest thing I ever saw, him waving his arms around while a dozen of those ugly birds flapped all around him, clicking their beaks at his head."

"That's awful!"

"Oh, don't worry," Kíli said. "I came to his rescue. Must have shot a thousand that year. Best archery practice a lad could ask for. Never mind that I got a shilling for every bird I killed. The local farmers practically lined my pockets with silver. Sometimes more than once for the same bird. And before you think I’m wicked, my services were rendered for the good of all. It only stands to reason that each should reward me equally! Of course, Fíli wouldn't let me get away with it. He forced me to give the extra coins back before Thorin found out."

"A voice of reason," Bilbo said.

"Yes," Kíli agreed, and once again the back of his head thumped against the door. "Though he's less skilled at keeping his own backside out of the fire. If he was, he would have fewer scars."

There was much packed within Kíli’s tone and the word 'scar', but Bilbo was too polite ask about something that wasn’t his business. Instead, he encouraged Kíli, "Take heart. We'll rejoin them soon. And in the meantime –"

"In the meantime, may the Maker keep them safe," said Kíli.

After that, silence ruled the halls until only the echo of the underground spoke, and both Bilbo and Kíli were left with their own lonely thoughts.

* * *

As though a pall of ill omen was over their journey, a steady rain began, lashing the faces of Fíli and the others until they were chaffing in every part and half-drowned. Mud became their new enemy. It crept up their calves, clinging like an itchy skin, and when the deluge finally stopped, that was when the insects emerged to take their breakfast. Clouds of midges, trains of mosquitoes, and huge biting dragonflies with wings like dark jewels. One dug its jaws into Ori's scalp, and he let loose a howling curse so vehement that everyone, Ori included, stared in shock.

Nori clapped him on the back. "You can be glad Dori didn't hear that!"

"Not to worry, Ori,” Fíli reassured him. “We're not lads any longer, and what's an oath between grown dwarves?"

"I could be bow-backed and covered with wrinkles and Dori would still scold until my ears burned," Ori sorrowed.

Fíli chuckled. “That’s the way of things, I’m afraid. The old oppress the young.”

Ori muttered, "I don't think you've ever been young, Fíli."

On the contrary, Fíli sometimes felt he would never stop hearing about how little he knew of the world. If only Ori had witnessed some of those inglorious moments, he wouldn't think Fíli so mature. Fíli might not have a Dori, but he knew the struggle to be seen as a dwarf in his own right only too well.

 _'And then there is that added pressure,'_ he thought, _'that you must be more than a dwarf. You must be a Durin, and – if a kingdom there be for us – you must also be a prince.'_

It wasn't something Fíli dwelt on often. Mostly just when he was maudlin over too many pints, or on nights when he couldn't sleep. Or during long sessions with Balin going over the old laws. Or when his uncle, oppressed with the weight of past griefs, summoned him before a fire. Fíli huffed a laugh. Okay, so perhaps he thought about it quite a lot. Still, one’s destiny was set like runes in stone, and Fíli had no time to spare for whinging about his own.

As the day wore on and their progress remained slow, Bofur decided to make use of his captive audience. "So, there were these two miners," he began, ignoring Dwalin's groan. "They were caught in a cave in, and one of the miners was struck on his head by a falling stone. He laid on the ground, eyes glazed, with a gash on his head weeping blood.”

Bifur shuddered, as though some memory had penetrated his foggy mind. Ori shivered, too, drawn into the tale by his own imagination.

Bofur continued, "Soon, a party of rescuers found them, but the fallen rocks stood in the way. Only the light of their lanterns reached between a crevice in the fallen rocks. The trapped miner cried out to them, 'Help, we're trapped in here, and I think my friend is dead.' His rescuers, who knew they wouldn't be able to dig them out for some time, told him what to do: 'Now, lad,' they said. 'Calm down and listen. The first thing you need to do is make sure he's dead.' They could barely see a thing, but they heard a grunt and then the sound of a heavy pick axe being thrust into the ground. For a moment, there was nothing but panting, but then they heard the trapped miner speak again: 'Okay,' says he. 'What next?'"

There was a long pause in which nothing was heard except insects, and then Nori guffawed so loudly that a flock of waders took wing in sudden, startled flight.

"That's terrible!" Ori exclaimed. Bifur seemed to agree. He jabbed at his cousin, but Bofur jumped clear, cackling as he did so. Unfortunately, this knocked him into Ori. Ori’s arms pinwheeled, and though Dwalin made a grab for him, the younger dwarf still fell backward and landed on his backside in a black pool.

Fíli only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He opened his mouth to ask if Ori needed help, but the words caught in his throat, for something was clearly wrong. Like a sucking fist, the muck had gripped Ori’s hands, his chest. Already submerged up to his waist, he flailed, but his feet found no purchase. Horror paralyzed all of them for the duration of a candle flicker, and then, with a cry, Nori shoved past Dwalin and went to his knees, his arms outstretched over the mire.

For a mire it was; there was no longer any uncertainty about that. Only Bofur's grip on Nori belt saved him when the ground beneath his knees gave way. Quickly, they shuffled back onto more certain footing, leaving Ori stranded. "Nori!" he cried. "Help me, please!"

"He's stuck," Dwalin said numbly, drawing a hand over his scalp. "There's no getting him now. There's not a stick of wood for miles." It was true. The marsh had no trees, no logs or branches. Only long grass and clumps of water plants grew here. None with the strength to draw Ori out.

Fíli had seen a pony sucked into a mire once. It had sputtered and screamed, drawn down by its own exertions, until only a wild, white rimmed eye remained above the surface. In the present, Ori made a low, pitiable sound, and Fíli’s throat constricted. He could not let his friend die here. He went down on his knees at the very edge, pressing with his hands. To his surprise, they were not immediately taken down in the slurry. Rather, the surface squelched, more like a great heap of waterlogged mud than peat. Relief filled his chest so suddenly he almost laughed. "Mister Dwalin," he said. "It’s not as bad as we feared. Just keep a hold of my legs, would you?"

He didn't give the older dwarf a chance to argue, but pulled himself on his forearms onto the mire. He sank immediately, but the muck was denser than it looked. His distributed weight wasn't so great a burden, and he was able to creep forward until he was right in front of Ori, now sunk almost to his chin.

"Hullo, Ori," he said, taking a moment to catch his breath. Fíli could see Ori's hands clenching and unclenching just beneath the surface, as though he were fighting the urge to seize his rescuer. Fíli was glad for his restraint. Their situation was precarious, and an overhasty movement by either of them might end in double tragedy. With an effort, he reached down the length of the younger dwarf, groping until he caught hold of Ori's belt. The mud was sticking to his cheek by the time he felt it, and he smiled fiercely in triumph. To Ori, he said, "Listen, now. The trick of it is spreading your weight out over the surface. If we can pull you out, I think you should be able to crawl to the others. Are you ready to give it a try?"

There was an audible gurgle as Ori searched for his voice, but eventually he croaked out a credible, "Y-yes."

"Good," Fíli encouraged, strengthening his grip. "Crawl forward while I pull. Ready back there, Dwalin? Now!"

At first there was a complete lack of progress. The muck held despite their combined efforts, but Fíli didn't give up, not even when his nose and mouth were covered and his fingers grew numb.

Grunting with effort, Fíli said, "You're going to have to wiggle your hips a bit." Then, grasping the humor in the situation, he grinned past his mask of oozy mud. "Imagine there's a pretty lass nearby and you're trying to get her attention." Despite the life threatening nature of their position, Ori looked as though the very idea might send him into full blown panic. Sensing this, Fíli lowered his voice so it carried only to their ears. "It's alright, Ori. I was only teasing. Are you ready to try again? One, two, _three_ –"

This final effort was enough. There was a sound like a great, muddy gulp, and Ori's was disgorged onto his belly. He scrabbled forward, and as soon as he was within range, his brother dragged him to safety. Smiling with relief, Fíli lay panting until there was a jerk on his own ankles. Before he knew it, Dwalin was standing him on his feet and asking in a heavy voice, "Are you alright, Laddie?"

Fíli drew his palm over his mouth and nose, whipping away some of the oily mud. His wounded arm, the one the spider had bitten, was trembling. He was also queasy, but that was hardly surprising judging by the taste in his mouth; he felt as though he had swallowed half the bog.  
"I'm fine," he said. He sought Ori, whose face was so pale the freckles stood out like speckles on an egg. "Alright, Ori?"

His timorous nod was interrupted by Bofur, who spoke nervously, "Ah. Well, alls well that ends well."

Not surprisingly, Nori went after him, reaching for his neck with a snarl. “You great oaf. Your clowning almost got my brother killed!”

Bofur threw out his hands. "I didn't mean any harm!"

Dwalin was no less angry. "Nonetheless, harm you caused."

Fíli couldn't help but agree. They had allowed themselves to grow complacent, and the cost had nearly been too high. "We can't underestimate this place," he said. "It may not carry an axe, but it's just as dangerous as any foe."

Much to his relief, these words brought thoughtful nods rather than raised fists. Fíli moved to the front. "I think I'll lead a while," he said, sensing that Nori was in no state to pick out their path. The first new drop of rain landed on the bridge of his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have recognized the joke Bofur tells as a version of "the funniest joke in the world", which is generally attributed to comedian Spike Milligan. It was just too perfectly morbid not to modify it for Bofur's use. :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Fíli and the others reach the river, but how will they get across?


	5. Boiling Water

"This is what you get for taking directions from a wizard,” Nori complained as he was forced to give a particular forceful jerk to free his boot. “A villain will waylay you and a crook can be trusted to take your last penny, but a wizard always has ulterior motives."

Fíli didn’t bother arguing. Privately, he _did_ think Gandalf had motives of his own, motives which were only peripherally to do with restoring the dwarven kingdom of Erebor. He felt certain they were _good_ motives, because, despite his reputation for being a barer of bad news, Gandalf was good. Fíli just wasn’t sure if it was _good_ for them. Thorin felt the same: _‘Gandalf is true to his own machinations, and as long as they work alongside our own, we can trust him.’_  


_‘And if they don’t?’_ Fili had asked.  


His uncle gazed darkly toward the West. _‘Then we’ll be on our own.’_

"That's not really fair, is it?" Ori said. "After all, he had the key and the map. If it weren't for Mister Gandalf, we wouldn't even be on this quest."

"Exactly," Nori agreed with emphasis. “And what does he get out of it?"

"A share of the treasure."

"But what does a wizard want with treasure?"

"The same as anyone else, I'd wager," Bofur put in and chortled.  


Fíli glanced at Bofur as he cheerful stomped through the swamp and felt a surge of pride that such folk followed his uncle. It was dwarves like him – good, honest people like Bofur and his brother and cousin – that would make the dwarves of Erebor strong again, he was sure if it.

Nori, meanwhile, was still grumbling about the reliability of wizards. “I’ll meet you in the mountains, he says. Stay on the path and you’ll be fine, he says. I’d like to know one time where Gandalf has lead us right. We should stop taking advice from that balmy old harbinger, that’s what I say.”

Dwalin cast a heated glare. “Nobody asked you.”

It might easily have been the start of another argument, but, thankfully, Bifur grunted from the front of the line before one could begin. Fíli was half expecting some new catastrophe, but though Bifur was submerged up to his knees, he seemed otherwise unmolested.

"What is it?" asked Dwalin.

Years ago, Bifur had taken a blow from an axe head so grisly the surgeon had not dared risk removing it. Everyone expected he would die, but Bifur had defied those odds. He had survived, but the wound had muddled his speech. He could use iglishmêk, however, and so it was with gestures that he made this newest obstacle known: the path had ended.

"We're lost again?" Ori said. The gnarled paths of Mirkwood still figured large in their mind, and the idea of repeating any part of that experience was horrible.

Vibrating with nerves, Nori declared, "I knew it! Did I not say we should make our way South?"  
"Fíli thinks this is the best way," Ori spoke. "He said –”

"Oh, hush," Nori snapped back. Fear was making his temper sharp. "What do any of you know about life in the wilds? All of you stuck up inside the Blue Mountains, plinking around like marbles in a jar, so smug and content with your airs and graces and brass candle sticks –"

Dwalin's fingers flexed as though stretching around his absent knuckle-dusters. "I've had just about enough of you,” he said.

"Now, now," Bofur tried, ever the peacemaker, but the two combatants turned on him so fiercely he shut his mouth.

Fili gazed around. He knew by the sun which way the river lay, but it wasn’t much use. The water level rose and fell; paths that had been dry became covered by water, while others that had laid submerged and unknown asserted themselves in puzzling array. Worse, the fumes off the black water clouded Fíli’s head, not with hallucinations, but with a lassitude that made it feel as though he were moving through mud.

He remembered his uncle’s horrible blankness in Mirkwood when they lost their way, and his stomach clenched with understanding. It was terrible to have no answers. What should they do?

The others were still arguing. Ori was making a valiant attempt to keep his brother away from Dwalin, but that didn’t stop Nori from jabbing his finger over Ori’s shoulder. “I joined this party to follow Thorin, not to listen to you, you _dizhat-turg ozodl.”_

Ori gasped, and Dwalin’s huge voice rose. “Come here, you wretched coward. It’s long past time we settled this like dwarves.”

Nori made an ugly gesture, unambiguous and entirely past the pale of restraint. “Gladly! And would I had a sword to finish it, too.”

Fíli lost his temper. It was as though a great pressure had boiled up inside him, until finally he could contain it no more. He grabbed two handfuls of mud from beneath his feet and flung them into the combatant’s faces.

"Stop squabbling!"

His roar and the shock of his assault accomplished what he’d hoped. Everyone froze. Dark mud rolled down the side of Dwalin’s nose, and Nori’s jacket was splattered with it. Fíli seethed, not trusting himself to speak. Only when he was certain he had mastered his temper did he say, "We’ll have to go back."

And with them still staring, he began walking in the direction they came, his shoulders straight and proud. He did not give himself room to doubt that they would do as he said. He lead.

And, thankfully, they followed.

* * *

Swift and brown, the river boiled. From the peeks and whirlpools, Fíli knew that unseen rocks and other dangers were hidden beneath the water – water more turbulent than he would have expected at this time of year. Looking at the surging current, he wasn't quite dismayed, yet as an obstacle it was a considerable one. Dwarves weren’t powerful swimmers at the best of times, and this was a passage that none but the most foolhardy would attempt.

Bofur whistled low, clearly as impressed as Fíli by the whirling eddies. “Now that’s a dip I would rather avoid,” he said. “And as filthy as I am, that’s saying something.”

Nori peered down the embankment, his face grim. “One toe in there and you’ll never need a bath again.” He glanced up, catching Fíli’s eye. “That’s a drowning river.”

Fíli could just see the far bank. It looked far more wholesome than the ground they currently occupied. There, under the friendly branches of sheltering woodland, they would be able to travel at a much faster pace. However, to get there, they would have to pass over the river. "I wish I knew the area better," he said with regret. "The maps we studied have been wrong so far. What chance of a nearby crossing?"

He spoke in equal parts to Dwalin, who had been east of Mirkwood before, and Nori, whose woodland experience was extensive. Both looked grave as they considered the puzzle they’d been set. Before they could speak, however, Bifur called to them from downriver. His cousin echoed, "Oye! We found a place to get across!"

Fíli’s relief was short lived, for when they reached Bofur and Bifur, they were facing not a beach of shallow stones, but a deep gully. Gurgling below, the river raced through a narrow passage cut between high banks. And precariously traversing this place was a fallen tree, its scarred hulk black with dampness and scaly with lichen. Fíli felt his heart suck down into his boots. "This is it?"

Bofur said, "It’s not that bad. Supposing we fell, it would be just a short plunge into the water, and then we bash our heads open on the rocks. Splat."

Ori's complexion turned bloodless. "Why do you do that?"

Nori was considering the more practical aspects of this potential passageway. "This tree has been here a long time. See how the branches have been stripped by the current? If flood and the turn of the seasons haven't loosened it yet, I'd say it's probably solid enough to take our weight." He glanced at Dwalin. "Perhaps you should test it. You're the heaviest."

Dwalin’s glare was a honed edge, and Fíli stepped forward. "If you think it will hold, Nori, then that’s good enough for me. I'll go first."

Suddenly hesitant, Nori suggested, "Perhaps we should scout ahead, see if we can find another route."

Dwalin took a firm hold on Fíli’s arm. "I don’t know about this, lad. Suppose that old hulk gives way?"

"Then all those dunkings Kíli gave me over the years will come in handy," Fíli answered, thinking of lazy days playing with his impish brother. Kíli excelled at swimming. _'You would do better if you weren't scared of drowning,'_ Kíli often teased, and Fíli would scoff: _'Perhaps if you weren’t so fond of holding my head under until I've swallowed half the lake –'_ The echoing voices from the past combined with Dwalin's bruising grip, and Fíli extended his forearm, offering a warrior's handshake. "You don't mind being rearguard, do you, Mister Dwalin?"

"No," his old mentor said slowly. "No, I do not."

Ori was wringing his hands in a much more open show of concern. "Be careful, Fíli."

Fíli approached the fallen trunk and hopped aboard. It took his weight with barely a creak. The footing was treacherous. It was wet, and there were long, smooth patches where the bark had sloughed off, leaving the sides slick and bare. He took a step away from the shore, then another. One more and he was over the roar of the river, which spit angry flecks of stinging water onto his downturned face. The toe of his boot scraped at the next step, sliding to the right. Hastily, he bent his knees, catching himself before he could fall. He heard the breathing of his friends on the bank, and Bofur called, "Steady!"

Step by careful step, Fíli made his way until he was finally on the other side. He stole a moment to put his hand over his pounding heart, then turned back toward the opposite bank. "Your turn, Bifur!"

Bifur crawled upon his hands and knees, his long beard dragging, but he made it. Bofur, on the other hand, no longer seemed interested in joking. He had turned the color of porridge before he was halfway across, perspiration standing out on his face despite the mist off the river.

Fíli shouted encouragement. "That's it, Bofur. You're almost there."

That was when the tree made a strange sound, like a door turning on neglected hinges. It was their only warning. The tree turned, rotating more than a hand’s breath in the space of a second. Bofur fell, his fearful caterwaul overlapped by Nori's shout, for Ori, who’d been climbing onto the far side of the log when the tree moved, had also slipped into the river. There was no time to think of him, however. Already, Fíli could see Bofur's dark head disappearing downstream.

Stripping off his boots, Fíli jumped, slamming into cold, deep water. Bubbles hissed by his ear, and then he was floating on his back, feet thrust forward, carried along by the current.

Keeping his head back, he soon caught a glimpse of an unnatural blur in the otherwise fluid river. Swimming strongly in that direction, he felt himself being shoved over smooth stones, bashed into the blunt edge of others. Finally, a matted plait of hair touched his hand, and he seized it with all his strength. Somehow, he managed to get his arm around the dwarf and force both their heads above water.

Bofur did not kick or struggle, and Fíli didn't know if he was breathing. A wave swept over them, and the scrambled sounds of water filled Fíli’s ears, but he forced himself to stay still. Dwarves were naturally dense – their bones heavy and covered with knotty muscle – but even dwarves had enough buoyancy to be drawn back up into the air as long as one didn’t panic. Finally, his patience was rewarded. He breeched the surface with a dazzling shattering of light and air.

Fíli gasped. He knew he must reach the bank. If they didn’t, submerged tree limbs could tow them under and drown them. Slowly he angled toward shore, keeping an almost strangling grip on Bofur, until finally Fíli felt silt and loose stones under his knees.

He didn’t wallow long in the shallows before someone came to meet them, kicking up great splashes of water. It was Bifur, who was panting so hard he was practically sobbing. He took firm hold of his cousin, who coughed, murky water dribbling down his chin. Then Bofur raised a feeble hand and rested it on Bifur’s arm. "Steady now. Don’t jostle me. I may still have a few bones that aren't yet broken."

Fíli, still on his hands and knees in the water, was too strangled with water to laugh. Staggering ashore, he barely had his feet on solid ground before Bifur turned with thunderous visage and strode up to him. Then Fíli was being crushed, his abused ribs aching as the old veteran embraced him with the strength of a bear.

The whiskery chin brushed against his neck, his gravely voice muttering in a lost, wavering tone, _"Uzbadê, khamânê ai-mênu."_

Fíli needed no translation, though the words were so mangled by emotion they were even more unintelligible than usual. Drawing up an arm, Fíli patted Bifur on the back. "Ah, your welcome, Bifur."

"Oh, my aching body," moaned Bifur. He burped, causing water to dribble from his mouth and mucus to ooze form his nose. "I think I would rather have been brained against the rocks."

The heavy undergrowth which populated this side of the river rustled, and they were joined by their other friends. Waterlogged but seemingly unhurt, Ori cried out when he saw them. "You're alright!”

"We're fine," Fíli confirmed, and finally let go of the breath he’d been holding since the moment he put his foot on the trunk of that blasted tree. A long shadow stretched across his face, cast there by the sun setting behind the long trees. "But we better get a fire started. Otherwise, it's going to be an uncomfortable night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems as good a time as any to promote the webpage of David Solo, who contributed to the neo-Khuzdul used in the Hobbit films. It's called [Midgardsmal](http://web.archive.org/web/20190126115532/https://midgardsmal.com/), and most of my teeny tiny language references are derived from the linguistic work he was good enough to share.


End file.
